Going Senile

Lost Beneath the USA Los Angles Embassy's Twilight Zone

2016-12-27T11:46:00.000-08:00

We had to go down to LA to get a paper Yaya needed from the Japanese Embassy. We are just across the line dividing South Cali from North Cali. Driving to San Francisco is a lot easier than going to LA and it is about the same drive time, but bureaucrats must make a living. It was an interesting trip. I only got lost a couple of times, but they were some doozies. We decided to get off the freeways and get our bearings. I stopped at a gas station and asked for the intersection we were looking for, I was given directions after I bought a Pepsi. She told us that I only had to drive north for about 10 blocks and I would be right there. I checked the map and saw that I was on the southern border of Watts and we had to drive through it. I decided to take my chances, bolstered up my courage and jumped back on the freeway. We eventually came out within sight of the Embassy. I drove up to the buildings and found a parking place in the basement of them. We left the kids (Frank and Loretta) in the car and we took an elevator up, jumped on an escalator and headed to the ground level. We saw the goal and after getting as close as I could with Yaya, I aimed her at the right space and hurried back down to the car and the dogs. Sort of.
   I got went to the level I last remembered next to a basement Starbucks. (They look just like the ground floor Starbucks, except they don't have any windows.) I took the escalator down, and headed to the nearest elevator. I looked for the button with the C Level on it, but it wasn't there. I got off and looked for another elevator that did have C Level. I could not find it. I finally got into an elevator went down to B Level thinking I would just walk down to C Level and head for the entrance where we parked. I remember that it was bright an sunny and I was parked in a handicapped space right next to it. I jumped in, pushed the B Level button and got off in the Twilight Zone.
     So I am on B Level and I have to get to C level. Easy Peasy. I start going down the ramp towards C. But I don't get to C, I get to D. Soooo, I go back up following D till it turns into C. It turns into A, but I don't see any exits. I think if a car can drive down here and get out of the place, then that is what I'll do. I start going up the down ramp that should soon lead me to street level, but I find myself back a the elevator again. I make my way back to the lobby, but isn't called a lobby, I find that I am on the concourse. Thing is, I am on the wrong concourse. I am supposed to come out at Bank of America, but it is across the street and I am standing next to something that should be a sculpture, but looks like a bunch of slag metal that could be something that was caught in a terrorist attack. It isn't smoking, so I turn my back on it and try to go down a level to get across to the Bank of America. I wind up in the tunnels again with no cars and all the levels except for C. Finally, I go down some stairs and I find myself outside on Hope Street. I remember that I saw Hope Street at some time and I go walking down the block looking for an entrance with my car and dogs. Nothing. Suddenly my phone rings. It is Yaya. She
is finished and wants me to come get her. I tell her that the place is really tricky and to stay put and I'll come get her. I go off down the tunnel again and turn up on the concourse with Bank of America. My phone rings and it is Yaya and she is back at the car. She asks someone and finds that I need to get to Flower Street. I head back to the escalator and figure that I am back at the right spot. I am back at the tunnels. I go back around looking for the place I need to go and I meet a guard near the elevator. She gets out and I see a bathroom, which at this point I really need. She unlocks the door with her pass, (I didn't even know I needed a pass to get into the bathroom.) when I get out she tells me I have to go up the short escalator and down the long escalator. I try that and I wind up on Flower Street, but I have been there before. I call Yaya I tell her I am still lost and I am on Flower Street, but I can't find the car. She says, I am over here, I see you. I turn around and she is down about half a block right next to the entrance where the car is parked.
    I tiredly walk over to her and get in the car. I tell her what happened, and she says she just walked straight back to the car. The rest of the day she keeps giving me directions and I finally ask her why she is doing that. She says that I have gone senile and I need help.
     Eventually, we get back to town and Yaya decides that she it is too late to cook, so we wind up going to a Chinese restaurant and she keeps trying to wipe my mouth with her napkin. I think I am moving across the border so that I can just go to San Francisco next time.

Pinked in 1978

2016-03-12T19:01:00.000-08:00

Punk'd in 1978

It was probably July 1977 when I walked into the liquor store at about 7 am. I had cooked all night at a local 24 hour restaurant. I was tired and I needed a drink, so I had gone in to get a pint of whiskey and a tall 6 pack of Buds.

I watched the magazine guy drop off bundles of new magazines. One of the first bundles that hit the ground from the truck looked up at me with the cover blazoned with "The First Time Ever! Scratch and Sniff Centerfold!"

The idea was intriguing, a scratch and sniff center fold. I was the first to pull a magazine out and take it inside the store. I opened the magazine to the centerfold, but it was a double, no triple, no quadruple-fold. The page was huge. It unfolded to a full size model. The scratch part was in the bottom right hand corner. The way it unfolded, I had to hold the top left of the magazine where the centerfold was attached, and stretch my left arm high, and I had to bend my face low as I scratched the .. uh .. snatch, and then hold the paper to my face to smell. It turned out to be a rather awkward position, and the smell was a disappointing sick rose scent.

It took me a minute to refold the magazine and finally put it on the magazine rack. The clerk, wondering what the hell I was up to, came from behind the counter. I showed him the magazine cover and soon, he was going thru the same contortions as I had been in. It was amusing to watch him go through the same dance I had just finished.

That is when I suddenly realized the joke that Larry Flint had just pulled on me and soon to number, thousands of unwitting men around the country.

The model had widely spread legs and the object of the sniff was smack in between them leaving the nude woman's body spread out above the sniffer. There in the middle of the liquor store was a man with his face buried in the middle of a poster of a woman's crotch.

I bought my whiskey and beer and then sort of hung around to watch as others came in and fell for the cosmic joke that Larry Flint had just punk'd all of the drinking men in America.

One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. - Friedrich Nietzsche at BrainyQuote

2015-04-15T22:11:00.001-07:00

One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. - Friedrich Nietzsche at BrainyQuote

You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only... - Friedrich Nietzsche at BrainyQuote

2015-04-15T22:10:00.001-07:00

You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only... - Friedrich Nietzsche at BrainyQuote

All things are subject to interpretation whichever interpretation prevails at a given... - Friedrich Nietzsche at BrainyQuote

2015-04-15T22:09:00.001-07:00

All things are subject to interpretation whichever interpretation prevails at a given... - Friedrich Nietzsche at BrainyQuote

Super Bowl, in Retrospect

2014-02-02T13:21:00.003-08:00

I worked for a family restaurant for a few months in about 1985 or so. I would occasionally get tips from the waitress or from a customer, I did fast good tasting and presentable food, I was proud of my work. I wound up getting paired up with this one guy that hussled tips from the waitress, his food didn't really meet my standards, but it was a busy place and I couldn't do it alone. He'd constantly pressure the waitresses to feed the "kitty" each time they picked up an order, even if he was working on another order, he had to hussle. At the end of the shift, he was counting up his booty and I asked, "How much did we get?"; his answer was, "There is no "Our" tips, I hustled them, they are mine. I didn't say anything about it, and I did have to work with him a couple more times and he pulled the same tactics., but we rarely got the same shift. A few weeks later, the schedule for Super Bowl week end came out. Funny, he was scheduled and I wasn't. I am not a big sports fan, and I rarely know who is playing, much less even where, so I didn't think any thing about it. Suddenly my co-worker was talking about the great Super Bowl party with a lot or his and some of my and even a few mutual friends. I really didn't care to go to a party where everyone went nuts for no apparent reason, cheering eating and drinking, standing in line for the toilet and making a big deal out of something that I would normally use for an excuse to drink, hell, waking up each day was good enough for me, I didn't need a party.
Soon, the guy was fast talking other people to change shifts with him so he could make it to the party. When he got to me, he said, "Hey Tony! I'll give you $50 if you work for me Sunday. "Nope", I said. I don't want to work Sunday, too busy." He continued to beg people about that time, offering more and more money to take his shift. At the last possible minute on the night before the game he said "I'll give you $150 to work for me." "Naw, I'm good, I have other plans." I left that Saturday, and about the time half-time was starting up, my wife and I went down to the restaurant and ordered lunch, sitting at the counter where we could watch my co-worker really, really hussle! He was swamped, running his ass so fast that he didn't have time to beg for tips. I enjoyed it, he was working and I wasn't. I was eating lunch. I think I had a club sandwich, one of the most time consuming sandwiches on the menu. He didn't even know I had ordered it. He looked up and saw me eating it and started to turn red in the face. "YOU ordered that?" he said in an accusatory voice. "Why aren't you home watching the game?" I gave a big grin and I said, "What game? I hate football." I gave the waitress a big tip on the condition that that she did not share it with the cook. We finished up and went shopping. The stores were hardly at all crowded, we had a pleasant time and eventually went home and relaxed. You know, Karma can be a real bitch, ya know?

To-daze Wisdom

2014-02-02T13:19:00.000-08:00

There is a good reason for stereotypes. People are so predictable and conform to peer groups so well that someone had to coin a word to explain the concept.

Obituaries
Every day, I read the obituaries in the newspaper first thing. If my name isn't there, I continue on to read my horror-scope

Life is like a bowl of cherries. No matter how good it looks, it's still full of pits.

Life Lesson # 937.2 A

2013-09-18T20:07:00.000-07:00

Always check for toilet paper before you sit down.

Anarchy?

2013-09-18T20:00:00.000-07:00

Anarchy has more than one definition. Some use the term "anarchy" to refer to a society without a publicly enforced government or violently enforced political authority.^[1]^[2] When used in this sense, anarchy may^[3] or may not^[4] be intended to imply political disorder or lawlessness within a society.
Others, including most individuals who self-identify as anarchists, use the term to imply a system of governance, mostly theoretical at a nation state level. There are also other forms of anarchy that attempt to avoid the use of coercion, violence, force and authority, while still producing a productive and desirable society.^[5]^[6] Anarchy is also a technical issue of economic science.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anarchy

Anarchy appears to have arrived in Washington DC. Obstructionism and infighting on the part of the GOP and the divided Republican party have become the norm. Doing nothing in favor of selfish political interests to keep a useless position in the political agenda is what has become the norm for the right. The radical far leaning rightest neo-cons have taken minority control of the House and are intent on emphasizing the highly vocal lunatic fringe of the right. Anyone with common sense knows that this is a non-productive and dangerous sidetrack to a healthy government.

Like a fish

2013-01-10T19:27:00.000-08:00

     I am seriously disabled when it comes to numbers. I have always have had a very difficult time with them from the very beginning. I found that I have a condition known as "dyscalculia", it is similar to dyslexia in that the numbers transpose. Many times I look at a set of numbers and it might as well be one big hairball that my cat has hacked up. No start, no middle and no end, just a complicated puzzle of lines that have no meaning to me. I know my Social Security Number and I know my driver's license number. I have my phone number down and can tell you what it is. If I write it down for you, you gotta double check, I'll transpose something. I have no trouble with letters, I excel at words. It is a cruel joke that nature has played upon me.
     I had to go to the bank today and talk about some finances I have. I generally forget all about them, they sit quietly in the bank an do whatever finances do in their spare time. When I am forced to confront them though, I am terrified. When I was talking to my financial guy today, I felt like he was the principal and I was once again forced to stay after school and practice the numbers till I got them right.
     Once, I was asked to stop at the supermarket by a friend to pick up a box of tampons. I was fine until I walked into the aisle of the "Feminine Hygiene" department. Suddenly, I was faced with a choice of petite, regular and large. Heavy and light days, liners with wings, liners with out wings, easy plastic applicators or natural lubricant applicators. I had never in my life been so out of my element as that day. I mean a man cannot really explain that type of situation to anyone, much less himself.
       I also guess that the another way to describe the way numbers affect me is like buying a bra. As a male, I am quite sure of what goes inside a bra. I am, or was at one time, quite adept at unhooking them with both hands, left hand, right hand, fastened in the back or fastened in the front, even those with no fasteners. I was a bra master. But, if for some reason I was chosen to go buy a bra, I would only know the basics. The problems start when I try to guess how it is supposed to fit, you know, putting the peddle to the metal, to where the rubber meets the road so to speak. I am totally out of my element. I know what all the basic moves, but I cannot put what I know to the task at hand.
     That is the way it is for numbers and me. Some things just aren't supposed to happen.

Silly Season and Sick of It

2012-09-15T01:16:00.001-07:00

The politics have gotten to me. For the last 3 weeks or so, I have been totally fed up with the news and how dirty this year is. I have never seen it this dirty before, and I have seen it get pretty dirty before.
Even Facebook has gotten so partisan it is not fun anymore. People that I thought were my friends put things up that are totally offensive ideologically. I never thought I could be at odds with so many people on so many levels. It used to be Republican or Democrat, not is is Libertarian, Totaltarian, Sectarian, Hate-tarian, and anything else you can hook a label to.
I feel if I need to create some sort of political know-it-all form of blog just to stay on top of shit.
I'll be back after I have considered my options. Currently I have two choices. Lobotomy or suicide.

How to Give a Cat A Pill

2012-05-07T10:04:00.000-07:00

How to Give a Cat a Pill:
1. Pick up cat and cradle it in the crook of your left arm as if holding a baby.
Position right forefinger and thumb on either side of cat's mouth and gently apply pressure to cheeks while holding pill in right hand As cat opens mouth, pop pill into mouth. Allow cat to close mouth and swallow.
2. Retrieve pill from floor and cat from behind sofa.
Cradle cat in left arm and repeat process.
3. Retrieve cat from bedroom, and throw soggy pill away.
4. Take new pill from foil wrap, cradle cat in left arm, holding rear paws tightly with left hand.; Force jaws open and push pill to back of mouth with right forefinger. Hold mouth shut for a count of ten.
5. Retrieve pill from goldfish bowl and cat from top of wardrobe.
Call spouse in from the garden.
6. Kneel on floor with cat wedged firmly between knees, hold front and rear paws-Ignore low growls emitted by cat. Get spouse to hold head firmly with one hand while forcing wooden ruler into mouth.
Drop pill down ruler and rub cat's throat vigorously.
7. Retrieve cat from curtain rail.
Get another pill from foil wrap. Make note to buy new ruler and repair curtains. Carefully sweep shattered figurines and vases from hearth and set to one side for gluing later.
8. Wrap cat in large towel and get spouse to lie on cat with
head just visible from below armpit. Put pill in end of drinking straw, force mouth open with pencil and blow down drinking straw.
9. Check label to make sure pill not harmful to humans and drink one beer to take taste away. Apply band-aid to spouse's forearm and remove blood from carpet with cold water and soap.
10. Retrieve cat from neighbor's shed.
Get another pill. Open another beer. Place cat in cupboard, and close door onto neck, to leave head showing. Force mouth open with dessert spoon. Flick pill down throat with elastic band.
11. Fetch screwdriver from garage and put cupboard door back on
hinges. Drink beer. Fetch bottle of scotch. Pour shot, drink. Apply cold compress to cheek and check records for date of last tetanus shot. Apply whiskey compress to cheek to disinfect. Toss back another shot. Throw tee-shirt away and fetch new
one from bedroom.
12. Call fire department to retrieve the #$%^&* cat from the top of the
tree across the road. Apologize to neighbor who crashed into
fence while swerving to avoid cat. Take last pill from foil wrap.
13. Using heavy-duty pruning gloves from shed, tie the little *&#%^'s front paws to rear paws with garden twine and bind tightly to leg of dining table. Push pill into mouth followed by large piece of filet steak. Be rough about it. Hold head vertically
and pour two pints of water down throat to wash pill down.
14. Consume remainder of scotch. Get spouse to drive you to the emergency room. Sit quietly while doctor stitches fingers and forearm and removes pill remnants from right eye. Call furniture shop on way home to order new table.
15. Arrange for RSPCA to collect mutant cat from hell and call
local pet shop to see if they have any hamsters.

How To Give A Dog A Pill:

1. Wrap it in bacon.
2. Toss it in the air.
3: Done!
Thanks Anja.

Observation of the Veterans Administration Police

2012-04-20T10:50:00.000-07:00

I have begun to have an at least once a month pilgramage to The West Los Angeles Veterans Hospital on Santa Monica Blvd in West LA. I had been given transportation to the Salvation Army's "Haven", a VA campus Emergency Overnight housing due to a mix-up with my overnight stay at the hospital. (I have to ride a bus from Santa Maria to WLO, a one way ride of around 4 hours. Often, the clinics I must attend are on different days, so I must stay at a motel provided by the Veteran's Administration.)
I was riding in a van, driven by a Veteran that has a job driving one of the many vans on the rather large hospital campus. The VA Police rushed by with lights flashing and siren screaming. The driver told me, "You know, this security forsce are over zealous men. They are scared cops that over react ot any threat real or imagined. They are scared because they know that with all the Veterans they have to deal with suffer from PTSD, and anyone of them, any age or physical ability are seasoned warriors. At any time, they could run into a little old guy with the power or means to take them out in the blink of an eye. These guys are just plain paranoid. You know what though? They should be paranoid. Some of these guys are just plain crazy.

The New Politics

2012-03-14T18:18:00.003-07:00

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Mitt is swearing that he’s gonna win, Santorum does win, Ron Paul keeps his happy little group and Gingrich winds up finishing third. This is just an example of how screwed up the Republican Party is. They have been so focused on screwing Obama, they haven’t bothered to keep their own house clean. Talk about cutting off your nose and throwing out the baby, these guys are doing to themselves what they’ve been trying to do to the Democrats. I have a huge worry that by some chance enough Republicans get into office due their hatred or racial prejudice by default. Hate Obama, find a name with an (R) in front of it and vote blindly and without thought of the consequences.

A country that has been the optimum of finding a compromise for the good of the majority is now frightened and duped into being sheeple. I recall when there were differences between a Right and a Left. Now the Right is so far to the Right, it is ready to fall off the edge, and they are dragging the ones who were on the Left into the gutter of the Right. To be Liberal anymore is as bad as being a mental case was 20 years ago. We suffer the chance of plunging into a “small government” that wants to be so small they want to make sure that you don’t have any rights if you don’t agree with their principals exactly. They want to be “small” enough that they want to go into your bedroom and condemn you for having sex for enjoyment rather than only for reproduction. They want to be so “small” that they can determine that your right to pursue happiness is only adhered to by their “small minds”.

Why are these people who want to keep a “small” Government are so small minded that they cannot accept the fact that marriage is for love and not as a testament as to how Christian you are. Last time I looked, the Ten Commandments had been tossed aside by Jesus and replaced with simply “Love your neighbor as you would love yourself. Just what in hell are they trying to do? This is the 21^st Century, and they want to plunge us back into the 1950s.

The Cisco Kid, He Was No Friend of Mine

2012-01-21T17:40:00.000-08:00

The Cisco Kid, He Was No Friend Of Mine

I think everyone knows Doug, or a person like Doug. Even if you don’t want to hang out with Doug, he always shows up. In my case, he was my neighbor in a very cheap rooming house in California in the early 70s.

Doug was a stoner. He lived ate, dreamed and pursued marijuana on a duel track with rock music. He saw little beyond the two, except for his fumbling inadequacy with females. There really wasn’t a lot going on between his ears, the music drowned out the empty echoes that filled the blank, empty spaces that were not occupied with sex.

He liked to hang around me. I knew a lot of people, many were female, and many were into smoking pot or playing music in bands, band practice, (a euphemism for party) where people were baked, basted in alcohol and left to rock in large groups of people in smoke filled houses. I think I liked Doug because he had a van; he liked to listen to loud music, drive and smoke. It was a party bus going from party to party.

My preferences were stacked in an opposing direction. I loved alcohol, women, music and then pot. Pot was what I reserved for times when I had no money and no alcohol, and no unattached women in the vicinity. It effectively took the pressure off me to be the gregarious cheer leader of the party movement. I believe it there was a place on the ballot for “Leader of the Party Movement”, I would have been a prime candidate. Doug’s fumbles turned into my touchdowns. Yes, I used Doug, but for Doug, it was a good payoff. He got to go to lots of parties, music jams, and he got to meet a plethora of females of legal age. Unfortunately, the feeling wasn’t reciprocated.

In all the time I knew him, I never recall at anytime of his ever getting laid. The only kiss I ever saw him get was when a girl asked him if he had ever had a doggy kiss. For Doug, he immediately got the impression of kissing and doggy style. So, of course, he said “No!” The girl asked if he wanted one. He resounded with an enthusiastic “Yes!” At this point, the girl took her cue and licked him along the side of his face from jaw line to hairline. A sloppy lick, and as Doug used his shirt tail to wipe his face, he was saying, “Well, I got a (doggy) kiss!” He was a very nice guy for the most part, but that didn’t get him very far.

There were a bunch of us sitting around the group room, which in this case was the basement of the rooming house. It was much larger than the living room upstairs, and had the advantage of dark corners. Some people were playing guitars, some people were rolling joints and lighting them, taking a hit and passing them on to the person next to them. Others, like me, would take an occasional hit on a doobie, and then go back to the bottle of wine, the preferred drink that you could have at a party, easy to share, easy to get back and was there in large quantities. It also did not need refrigeration, which put it a party point above beer, which needed constant replenishment from cold storage.

One time, a new wine came out, and no one knew what it tasted like. I had a half gallon, and after taking pulls off the wine and pulls off a pint of tequila, I noticed it was easier to pour the tequila into the bottle of wine and make a whole new taste treat. I didn’t tell anyone of this shortcut, but I am sure that tho people liked the taste, would put them on the edge of the line going over the line between being drunk and being violently ill; but back to the topic of Doug.

We were at one of these parties, and I noticed my wine reserves dwindling, so I summoned up a beer run, grabbing a couple of girls who wanted to go along for the ride, and with this ammunition, got Doug to drive us to the liquor store to get more wine, some whiskey, and some beer, just to balance out the whole liquid intake thing.

Because of the women, I was easily able to convince Doug that driving to the liquor store was the logical thing to do, and off we rocked into the darkness, speakers blasting out Meddle by Pink Floyd, (Doug’s current favorite), and off to Fat Wu’s liquor store. (Fat Wu’s was one of those lucky metaphors that had a double entendre built right in. Fat Wu, was fat. Happily, his liquor store was named after him, but not for him, which, intentional or not, left us all off the hook for any stupid remark to fall out of someone’s mouth.

Just as we were leaving Fat Wu’s, a carload of friends pulled up on a beer run of their own. They were stopping for a load of alcohol before they headed off to a birthday party for one of their friends. We all came to the conclusion that we should all head off to the party together, so Doug, me and the two ladies pulled in behind their car, an old Rambler. (At one time, a mechanically minded neighbor had taken the letters from Rambler and rearranged them to spell Marbler), so we stuck to them as they drove us across town to the party.

At this period in the drug culture, hippies were more inclined to drink smoke pot and drop acid. The party was at a Mexican acquaintance of one of the people in the Marbler. The Mexican-Americans were more inclined to drink, smoke pot and drop reds, or barbiturates. The anger management factor of barbiturates was more or less non-existent, so a person with average social skills was aware of this and acted accordingly. Doug was not exactly socially aware, period. I was not aware that Doug was that unaware. At that time, it was a near fatal mistake on my part.

We all grabbed some goodies and headed into the house. There was a pretty much mixed crowd of people, not unusual for parties of this period. We were all ready to party, or as in my case, had been partying. Soon, we found our little niche, and settled in, talking, flirting and drinking and having a pretty good time. I was watching Doug trying to hook up with this lady at the party, and it looked like he was doing pretty well. I was not surprised because he often got along well in the first fifteen to twenty minutes before he would blow it. The girl that had sat next to me, (she was quite good looking, and was feeling her alcohol in a fairly happy place.), she said her name was Gail.

“She said, “Hey, your friend Doug looks like he is going to score with that girl.”

“You don’t know Doug” I said, “He is gonna fuck it up any minute now”.

“Wanna bet?”

“Sure, I’ll bet you a dollar.”

“I don’t have a dollar, how about if I bet my body against your dollar?”

This was a sure win for me, but I didn’t do the honorable thing, I accepted her bet. We continued to talk and flirt, drink and consume substances of questionable legality. Soon, Gail and I are discussing in a more intimate level, occasionally coming up for air long enough to check Doug’s progress. We finally looked up and Doug was sitting there alone, looking at his hands. We don’t know what happened, but he had blown it. I had come home with the gold, and I was feeling pretty good. I could only thank Doug for holding his end of the bargain, as I knew he would.

The music that had been playing was an 8 track with Carlos Santana. The song, “The Cisco Kid, He Was A Friend of Mine” came up quite regularly, no one was actually paying much attention to the music by this time anyway, except Doug. I have mentioned before that he had a tendency to love Pink Floyd. Suddenly, the poignant lyrics, Cisco Kid stopped. I looked up and I saw that Doug had pulled the 8 track out and was holding his 8 track of Meddle, trying to lean around a big Mexican guy who was getting angry and trying to talk to him. I realized that the big Mexican was the one celebrating his birthday. It was his house, his party, and most important of all, his stereo and music. I realized that Doug was getting himself into trouble. Feeling sorry for the guy that had just guaranteed me a toss in the hay, I excused myself and approached the couple with the intent of defusing the situation before it got too bad.

Suddenly, the music started up again, and once again, it was Santana doing Cisco Kid. I figured it was all settled, but decided I had better get Doug out of range, and went up to them, putting my hand on Doug’s shoulder and saying I was sorry to the big Mexican dude. I was starting to Doug away, when the big Mexican began to rain blows upon my head and shoulders. I got it in the face and immediately went into defense mode and curled up in the fetal position on the floor. My only chance was if the big guy would get tired and go away, and not pull a knife or a gun. I recall the music playing, the Cisco Kid he was a friend of mine, over and over. The big Mexican’s wife was standing there screaming, “Not in front of the kids, not in front of the kids!” I wanted to agree with her, but the guy wasn’t even slowing down. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the guy stopped and Santana was still singing the refrain, Cisco Kid he was a friend of mine, so I gauged that it wasn’t that long of a pounding I had gotten, but a rather intense one. I looked up, the big Mexican was arguing with his wife, Doug was way across the room, and Gail was looking pretty freaked. I climbed to my feet, grabbed the girl and headed for the door, intending to wait in the van till the ambulance came for him, or Doug came out. To my surprise, he was already in the van starting it up. The other people we had come along with were in the van and as soon as Gail and I had crawled into the back of the Van, we were on our way home.

I wound up looking like Rocky Raccoon and hurting from every possible exposed area on my body. Doug didn’t get laid, but I did. Ever since that day, the Cisco Kid was no longer a friend of mine.

2012-01-15T11:18:00.000-08:00

Ahhh, Sunday! Tomorrow may be a Monday, but to me, it is just another Sunday! Tonight will be Saturday night, and every night next week as well. It is a tough job being a worthless disabled Veteran, but someone has to do it.
Sometimes, I really do miss working, it seems so long ago, but I think I will adjust just fine.
Meanwhile, enjoy your Sunday, and remeber, Monday's are there to give you perspective!

2011-12-27T12:24:00.000-08:00

I saw a woman wearing a kilt the other day. She looked nice, but I just had to wonder if she was a cross dresser.

The Shit List

2010-09-19T00:41:00.000-07:00

THE GHOST SHIT
The kind where you feel shit coming out, have shit on the toilet paper but there is no shit in the bowl.

THE CLEAN SHIT
The kind where you shit it out, there is shit in the bowl, but t3ere is not shit on the to

THE WET SHIT
The kind where you wipe your ass fifty times and it still feels unwiped, so you have to put toilet paper between your ass and your underwear so you don’t ruin them with those dreadful skid marks.

THE SECOND WAVESHIT
This shit usually happens when you’re finished shitting, you’ve pulled your pants up to your knees, and you realize that you have to shit some more.

THE BRAIN HEMMORAGE THROUGH YOUR NOSE SHIT
This kind of shit you strain so hard to get it out that you practically have a stroke

THE CORN SHIT No explanation necessary

THE LINCOLN LOG SHIT
This kind of shit that’s so huge that you’re afraid to flush the toilet without first breaking I up into little pieces with the toilet brush.

THE GEE I WISH I COULD SHIT
The kind where you want to shit but all you can do is sit on the toilet bowl, cramped and farting

THE NOTORIOUS DRINKER SHIT
This is the kind where you have after a long night of drinking. Its most notable trait is the tread mark It leaves on the bottom of the bowl.

THE POWER DUMP SHIT
This is the kind that comes out your ass so fast you barely get your pants down and you’re done
THE LIQUIDSHIT
The kind where yellowish-brown liquid shoots out of your ass, splatters all over the inside of the toilet bowl, the whole time burning your tender anus.

THE LIQUID PLUMMER SHIT
The kind of shit that’s so big it plugs up the toilet and you end up with shit all over the floor.
THE SPINAL TAP SHIT
The kind of shit that hurts so much coming out that you swear it must be coming out sideways.
THE I THINK I’M GIVING BIRTH TROUGH MY ASSHOLE SHIT
Similar to the “Lincoln Log” and “Spinal Tap” shits. The shape of the turd seems to resemble a beer can. Vacuous air space remains in the rectum for some time afterwards.

THE PORRIGE SHIT
The type of shit that comes out like toothpaste but just keeps coming out. You have two choices with this shit: a) flush it and keep going or b) risk it piling up to your butt while you sit there helpless.

THE I’M GOING TO START CHEWING MY FOOD BETTER SHIT
This is where those Doritos you ate before going to bed last night scrape the sides of your asshole till it bleeds.

THE AM I TURNING NTO A RABBIT? SHIT
The kind when you drop cute little rounds ones that look like marbles and make little splashing sounds when they hit the water.

THE WHAT THE HELL DIED IN THERE? SHIT
This is also sometimes referred to as the “Toxic Dump”. Of course you don’t warn anybody about the obnoxious bathroom odor. Instead you stand near the door and watch their faces as they run gagging and gasping for air…

THE I JUST KNOW THERE’S A TURD STILL DANGLING THERE
This is where you just sit and wait for the last cling-on drop to fall off because if you were to wipe it now, it would be rather messy.

THE GROANER SHIT
A shit so large it must be vocally assisted.
THE CROWD PLEASE SHIT
A shit so intriguing shape in shape or size that you must show it to someone else before you flush it.
THE RICHARD SIMMONS SHIT
The kind where you shit so much you lose 40 pounds instantly.

The Poncho Villa Will Never Die Shit
This is the kind of shit that comes reminds you that your were drinking tequila, eating incredibly hot tortilla chips and putting half a bottle of Tabasco in each beer to prove how damn tough you are.

Groups Names and an Observation

2010-09-09T20:03:00.000-07:00

If a group of dogs is a pack, and a group of lions is a pride, then a group of house cats has gotta be an "uppity"!

I saw a lady with 2 kids today. One was bigger than the other. Brother and Sister? I asked?" "No, twins", she said. Why is the boy so much bigger? I asked. "He always fed on the right." she answered.

Deciduosity

2010-08-27T18:30:00.000-07:00

When we are born, we have a full head of hair and no teeth. We lose the baby hair and grow teeth. Next, we grow real hair and we lose the baby teeth and grow permanant teeth. As nature and luck would have it, from then on, we begin to lose things, a tooth here, an appendix there, sometimes a digit or an appendage. Sometimes we have things taken away on purpose.

Next, the hair starts to go away again, except this time it does not come back. Our eyesight deteriorates, we need glasses. Hearing starts to go, then slowly, a bit at a time we lose other things, the appendix, teeth, a finger here, a toe there, perhaps a gall bladder. Man is a deciduous being! I call this deciduosity.

Full Moon

2010-08-22T04:52:00.000-07:00

I watched a film of some man shooting a rhino with a tranquiler gun.
The Rhinosteraurisisisis started running around.
Then he moved really slowly until he stopped.
Then he fell over...
I know how he felt.

James Dean ???

2010-08-21T03:54:00.000-07:00

I watched this guy order a shot of Tequila
and proceed to "Toss It Down"
(The same shot 4 times)
and go through the tough guy macho changes
of a sidewalk commando
with clean tennis shoes.

2 A.M.

2010-08-20T05:57:00.000-07:00

I was totally willing
To get lost in that kiss
While the bar was closing around us
And everyone was going home.
But you escaped because
you thought I was just trying to get into
Your pants
When it really didn't matter
Whose.

Life's First Great Lesson

2010-07-14T03:28:00.000-07:00

I was a stalwart young sailor of 18 years. I had joined the US Navy 10 days after I graduated from high school. (It seems that this in its self should have been the first great life lesson, but it wasn't. It wasn't the end of "high" schooling either.) I had spent the summer marching around in great squares, memorizing things that I will probably remember forever, but never use again. I graduated from boot camp in San Diego, and then returned 2 weeks later to attend "A" school. I was to become a dental technician/field medic. (This was not my choice, and it was my first encounter with my particular "kismet". It has been blatantly making it's presence known ever since.)

I had managed to score a ticket for a Janis Joplin concert at the Sports Arena in San Diego. I had taken the bus downtown, and while I was there, I tried to score some dope to smoke at the concert. I guess in the end, it was my Kismet coming back to help me out, because I was unable to cop even a roach. It wasn’t too surprising though, at that time in history, being a sailor in San Diego was more of a negative than it could be a positive, I looked too straight to be a hippie and too much like a cop to take a chance with. I did manage to find a friend who was a few years older, and he copped me a bottle of Ten High Bourbon Whiskey. It was a pint. For my young and inexperienced tolerance to alcohol, it was way more than enough for my purposes. I had never been very good at drinking, my family didn’t drink all that much, and none ever bothered to teach me how to hold my liquor. What was to ensue wasn’t going to be any test of that particular skill. I caught a bus from downtown directly out to the Sports Arena.

Only tasting the Ten High before I got to the bus, when I arrived, I wandered around, sneaking behind cars and buildings when I wanted a toot. I was early for the concert; people were all about heading towards the Sports Arena. I decided that I’d step into the Chevron Station to take a leak before the concert started. I waited my turn, finally getting in, and locking the door, I took a pretty good swig of the bourbon before relieving myself. I finished up my business, took another drink, stuffed the bottle down my pants, and then opened the door. I was surprised, it was a person from my barracks on the Naval Training Center, (NTC), so when he came in, I locked the door and pulled out the bottle. We shared a snort, I stashed the bottle, and the sailor left. “Hell, I thought, I’ll have one more quick one, and then head to the concert.” I neglected to lock the door, and the very next person that made his way into the restroom was a San Diego Police Officer, and he caught me stuffing the bottle back into the trousers.

“Are you twenty-one?” he asked.

“Yep.”, I replied quickly.

Apparently he didn’t believe me because he said “Shit”, and then grabbed me by the arm and took me out to the patrol car. He leaned me against the fender, then went over and spoke to another officer. They conferred for a minute or two, then the first cop came over and told me to turn around. He handcuffed me, then put me in the back of the patrol car. I was conflicted, I had never been in the back of a patrol car before, and I was curious. Boredom followed soon after, there just isn’t that much to do being handcuffed and stuffed into the back of a patrol car. I was starting to feel the buzz of the bourbon, and I had a real urge to have a cigarette. I was in a fix, the cigarettes and lighter were in my left front shirt pocket. My hands were behind my back. Since I had no clue as to how to act when handcuffed and stuffed into the back of a patrol car, I thought things over, and being much more flexible in those days, I pulled my heels up over my hands and moved my cuffed wrists to the front where it was much easier to manipulate the cigarette and lighter thing. I fired one up and settled back to watch the people outside heading off to the concert. About halfway through the smoke, I heard a knock on the window. I looked up, and there was my own private police officer staring down at me.

“OK, acrobat, get back the way I had you.”

I tried, I sincerely tried to get my feet up front and my hands back, but I got halfway there and got stuck. “I’m stuck.” I said with the cigarette dangling from my now semi-drunken lips. I heard cursing, and the officer opened the door and told me to stand up. It didn’t work. He muttered some unkind things, and then unlocked me, took the cigarette out of my mouth and pushed me back into the patrol car.

“Now stay that way!” Before he could shut the door I asked him, “Hey, I don’t wanna waste this ticket, would you give it to somebody?” I asked. I guess he saw the logic to that, and he took it and handed it over to some hippies that were standing and watching the spectacle. I made some strange kid happy that night. I hoped that he appreciated my sacrifice.

I sat there watching the people peer in at me, I was getting more bored, and more buzzed as the evening wore on. The police officers were conferring with each other,

then the other officer, (not my officer), got on the radio. Soon, a gray panel truck with “United States Navy ntssd “, stenciled on the side. The Shore Patrol had been called. I was guessing at the time that this might be a good thing, if I was turned over to them, I wouldn’t have to go downtown and face the civilian legal half of our justice system.

I was lucky. The San Diego City Police did turn me over to the Shore Patrol. The police officers uncuffed me, and then the shore patrol held me told me to go stand by the panel truck. I did, and I waited while they filled out the paperwork that reassigned me from the San Diego City to the United States Navy. The Shore Patrol came back, unlocked the panel truck, opened it up and put me into the back of panel truck. There were two benches in the truck, running parallel down the sides. There was a drunk sitting near the front on each side. Then I, being drunk number three, sat next to the less greener of the two, I wasn’t ready to be next to some car sick drunken sailor when the truck started bouncing around. I was looking for an easy out in case someone got sick. As it turned out, it didn’t really make any difference, the panel truck was just making the rounds picking up the odd stray drunk, the truck made about 3 more stops before it was full, and drove onto the navy base.

I had never been into the base by the main gate, my first time was when the panel truck pulled through fences, I could only see it through the sliding window between the cab and the back of the truck. I wasn’t really impressed with it, I was too worried about where I was going to be headed next, the Shore Patrol wasn’t being too informative. I was led from the truck into a door, then down the hall to a cage. I was officially in the Navy Brig.

I had never been locked up before, and it was all new. I was stuck into a square room with bars on three sides. There was a small stainless steel ledge that ran along two sides and the back, there was no bunk. I was the only one in there; they had given me my own private drunk tank. I was having a bunch of first experiences that I would have just as soon not have had. I pulled up the floor, laid down and stared at the ceiling.

The ceiling had some kind of vent above it. I was made of a steel plate with 2 inch holes drilled in it to let air in and out. For some reason, I still had a piece of chewing gum in my mouth. It was getting pretty stale, so I took it out, rolled it in a little ball and not having anything else to do, I tossed it up at the holes in the steel plate above me. This was more entertaining than doing nothing, and I was at it for about five minutes before it actually went into one of the holes, but the whole exercise was self defeating, I had nothing else to do but wait for what was to happen next.

Finally, around an hour later, an SP came in, unlocked the door and took me out to a truck in the parking lot. He let me sit in the front, and he drove me back to my barracks. I didn’t know it until later, but when the Master-at-arms heard that I had been brought in for drinking, he said, “Damn, a drinker, I thought all of these assholes were all dopers!” I didn’t know it, but I had gotten lucky. The Master-at-arms was a boozer.

The next morning, we all had to report to muster or roll call at eight AM. I was scared to death that I was really going to be raked over the coals. The MAA called out, “Who is this Kessler asshole?” I responded with a shaky “That is me, Master-at-arms.”

“OK asshole, go stand by the truck.”

I stepped out of formation and walked over to the barracks panel truck. It was very similar to the ones I had ridden in the night before, but it didn’t have bars or heavy screens over the windows. My anxiety increased tremendously as the MAA passed out jobs. Six men were assigned to carry buckets of red lead paint up three flights of rickety stairs of one of the buildings. They were to spend the next two weeks painting walls and concrete floors with either gray or red paint. The next six were assigned to carry buckets of clean water up three flights of rickety stairs, mop floors and scrub windows, and then carry the buckets of dirty water back down the three flights of rickety stairs and pour it into drains, and then clean the drains. The next six were assigned to carry rolls of tarpaper up three flights of rickety stairs and then onto a rickety scaffold and up onto the steep roof of one of the barracks to spend the next couple of weeks putting on a new roof.

My prospects were looking dimmer and dimmer. I had no idea of what he was gonna have me doing, but it didn’t look very promising.

“Kessler, go inside the office and bring the three floor buffers out and put them in the back of the truck, then you get in the truck and wait.” I was becoming less anxious and more puzzled as I picked up the three industrial size buffers, rolled them down the stairs and put them into the back of the truck. I sat in the front of the truck, and must have smoked about four cigarettes before the MAA finally came out of the building and got behind the wheel. “We gotta go over to the Base District Office and find a barrel.” he told me, and we were on our way.

This was to continue for the next week or so, until I had my scheduled “Captain’s Mast”, basically a low level court appearance where one pleads guilty to a misdemeanor. In my case, it was for drinking as a minor. I was sentenced to 3 weeks restriction to base, 2 weeks extra duty, and a fine that was about a quarter of my income, not a whole lot in those days. The extra duty involved running around the base with the MAA, and base restriction didn’t exclude me from base movies, library or and other base service. I didn’t’ have any money to go off base anyway.

The Captain’s Mast concluded, and before I left, the Captain asked me, “Kessler, what did you learn from all of this?”

“Not to drink alcohol until I reach the legal drinking age, sir.” I replied.

“No, Kessler. You have learned that above all, you must not get caught.”

There it was. My first great lesson, and my new philosophy on life.

Don’t get caught.

Learning to Walk

2010-07-11T00:04:00.000-07:00

I don't really recall the struggle it took me to get to the point where I could just hop up and start bopping down the street. I know it took me two years to get around to it. I can imagine though, that I had a lot of help learning, you know Mom and Dad letting me grab onto index fingers, and me doing some sort of staggering dance to move forward in a walking motion; of course maintaining the obligatory toothless grin that accompanies such actions. Eventually, from falling flat on my butt from a standing position to falling forward and skinning my hands and knees, I managed to master it. The exact time of that magnificent first step evades me though, seems like that would be something worth remembering.

I do know that after I figured out how much fun alcohol was though, I would begin to suffer setbacks. It really amazes me how a couple hours sitting around the table with some friends drinking beer, or sitting in a pub or bar for an evening can affect the hard learned lessons of childhood so easily, or, for that matter, how eager at times I am to forget them.